


The Girl Most Likely

by Miss Direction (msk)



Series: The Orphan Bond Stories [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Early in Canon, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-13
Updated: 2014-09-13
Packaged: 2018-02-17 05:55:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2298887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msk/pseuds/Miss%20Direction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When you're alone in the world, you have to create your own family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Girl Most Likely

October 1959

“Is that they guy who’s supposed to help you with your college applications?” 

Mary Grace Denton knelt on the window seat, looking from the view at the top of the school to the driveway below. Clair Donovan leaned in alongside her roommate, the girls dressed alike in the ankle length pleated skirt and crested cardigan sweater uniform of St. Boniface seniors. 

“That’s him,” Clair said. 

The girls watched as Illya Kuryakin struggled awkwardly out of the passenger seat of the car. He was leaning on a cane, but didn’t seem to be limping as he walked around the car. Clair recognized Heather McNabb as the driver, who reached into the back seat of the car and drew out a small suitcase. There seemed to be an argument as Illya tried to take the suitcase from her. Heather slapped at his hand and did not reliquish the case even when he glowered at her.

“I’ve never seen a guy wear his hair like that,” Mary Grace said. 

“It is kind of unusual,” Clair said. Illya’s blond hair wasn’t so much long, as different. It wasn’t greasy and slicked back with Bryllcreem like most of the men she saw on TV. It was soft and shiny clean. 

“Gee, he’s kind of cute. How do you know this guy, anyway?” Mary Grace smoothed the end of her blonde ponytail, a completely unnecessary act as the hair was perfect as always. 

“He was a friend of my father.”

“All of my father’s friends look like insurance salesmen. None of them look like that,” Mary Grace said as she pointed at Illya. “He’s moving funny--like he’s in pain.”

“Mr. Waverly said he was on medical leave and was free to help me, but he didn’t say what happened.” 

“Aren’t you going to go downstairs?” Mary Grace asked eagerly. “You don’t want to leave him to Reverend Mother.”

“I think he can handle it, but I really should go down. Do you want to come down and meet him?” 

Mary Grace nodded emphatically, her Sandra Dee ponytail bouncing; she was far more aware of the opposite sex than her roommate. Two years older and far more socially adept than Clair, she had taken the younger girl under her wing in the year since Jack Donovan’s death. 

The girls found the visitors in the entry hall. “Hi Illya, Heather” Clair said. “This is my roommate, Mary Grace Denton. Mary, this is Heather McNabb and Illya Kuryakin. They both worked with my dad.”

“Pleased to meet one of the many Marys of St. Boniface,” Illya said, with a nod in the girl’s direction.

“I didn’t know you were coming, Heather,” Clair said. “It’s good to see you.”

“I’m just the chauffeur today. Illya’s still not cleared for driving. And he’s not supposed to lift more than 10 pounds,” Heather said, handing his suitcase to Clair. “And he’s supposed to use the cane when he climbs stairs.”

“I am perfectly capable of speaking for myself,” Illya snapped. 

“You certainly are,” Heather said, patting his arm. She turned to Clair. “And he’s not supposed to wear himself out. But of course, he won’t tell you when he’s tired, so you have to keep an eye on him.”

“May I remind you, Dr. Engle cleared me to come.” 

“Dr. Engle cleared you because you were making everyone at headquarters crazy. Honestly, he gets so testy when he’s bored.”

“Heather,” Illya growled. “Don’t you have work to do back in New York?”

“Yes I do,” she said. In a stage whisper, she continued in the girls’ direction, “See what I mean?”

“Mr. Kuryakin, how are you?” Mother Grossner said as she came out of her office. “Mr. Waverly had informed me that you’d been hurt. You were in my prayers.”

“I’m much better, thank you.” 

“We’re grateful that you could come and help Clair with her applications.” She turned to Mary Grace. “Miss Denton, don’t you have a paper to write for Sister Damian’s class?”

“Yes, Reverend Mother,” Mary Grace said, blushing with embarrassment. “It was nice to meet you both.” Clair watched her friend dash up the stairs. Mary Grace had a tendency to wait until the last possible moment to do her assignments. The paper was likely overdue.

“I should be leaving as well,” Heather said. “Just let us know when Illya has worn out his welcome and someone will be back for him.” After a final glare from Illya, Heather left. 

“Sister Francis has made all of her college application materials available to you, Mr. Kuryakin.”

Sister Francis served as guidance counselor for St. Boniface. Most of the seniors were applying to Catholic women’s colleges, nursing or secretarial schools. Sister was comfortable with these more traditional routes, but Clair wanted to pursue a course of study in the hard sciences. To Sister Francis, this was as outlandish as making Ringling Brothers circus a career choice. 

“I’ll show you where we can work,” Clair said. She led Illya to the small room under the main staircase set aside for her independent study. Bookshelves lined two of the walls, and a refectory table served as Clair’s work surface. A stack of college reference books rested on the table, along with sheets of mimeographed school listings. 

Clair placed Illya’s suitcase by the door. “Did you hurt your leg?” she asked gesturing to the cane. 

“No. It was here,” he said, placing his hand gently over his stomach, just to the left of center. “The cane is supposed to support my abdominal muscles while they heal so they don’t hurt so much.” 

“Is it working?”

“Not that I’ve noticed,” he grunted, as he lowered himself into the chair. He extended a hand to the books, wincing in pain. Clair pushed them within his reach. 

“What happened to you?”

“It’s not important,” he said, flipping through one of the books. His appearance had alarmed her a bit. He looked thinner than she remembered from the previous year, the angles and planes of his face sharper and his suit hanging on his body. He seemed very pale, even for a fair-skinned person—as if it had been a long time since he was in the sunshine.

“You don’t have to protect me, Illya--I know what you do for a living. Were you shot?”

He sighed. “Yes, I was shot. And it’s taking a miserably long time to heal.”

“It must hurt a lot.”

“I can deal with pain. What I hate is the forced inactivity.”

“I’m glad you could help me sort through this,” she said. “Sister Francis was in a panic over it.”

“I must tell you, I’m not very familiar with American colleges. I went to school in Europe.”

“Mr. Waverly said you attended the Sorbonne and Cambridge University. That must have been incredible.”

“I was very fortunate. It was an uncommon opportunity for someone from my country to be allowed to study in the West,” Illya said, as he took another book from the pile. “And I will do my best to help you find the right school. I reviewed your test results. At fifteen, you achieved a near perfect score on your college boards. That is remarkable.”

“Sometimes, I feel like a freak. The sisters don’t know what to make of me and most of the girls act like I’m from another planet.”

“Being different can be hard,” he said. 

“Some seniors resent that I’m treated as one of them. I’m two years younger than a lot of the girls, and they think I haven’t earned the perks.”

“Perks?” he asked, clearly confused. 

“Perks. You know--privileges. Seniors get the best rooms at the top of the house, better uniforms, more freedom on and off campus. But to some of them I’m a little sophomore upstart.”

“You said ‘some of them.’ That would imply not all the girls think that.”

“No, not all the girls. For instance, my roommates are great—you met Mary Grace. Three of us share a room and Mary Grace and Peggy have been wonderful to me. I don’t know if Reverend Mother asked them to be nice to me after my father died, or if they did it on their own, but they include me in everything now. I even went on vacation with Mary Grace’s family last summer.”

“I’m glad you have found acceptance. When I first came to work in New York my reception was somewhat chilly. Relations between the Soviet Union and America were strained, as they are now. Your father was the first agent to befriend me. I never forgot that kindness.”

“I didn’t know that,” Clair said. There was so much about her father and his life that she didn’t know. She wished she’d known that he’d been kind to a new agent. It still hurt that he’d shared so little with her. She kept her eyes trained on the table, hoping to hide her emotions.

“I didn’t mean to make you sad,” Illya said, gently.

“It’s okay. I should be over it by now, but it still hits me sometimes,” she said, brushing away tears. She sorted through the books. “I don’t know where to begin with all this.”

“I understand you are interested in science. An unusual choice for a girl,” he said.

“You don’t approve?” 

“Quite the contrary. As a scientist, I am always glad when a student turns in that direction.”

“Even when the student is a girl?”

“I don’t mean to discourage you, Clair. You’re eminently qualified, but it won’t be an easy path. To begin with, your gender bars you from some schools with excellent science programs—Yale, Harvard and MIT, for instance. And women scientists have told me they faced tremendous opposition at university.”

“I know that. I meet regularly with an advisor at University of Connecticut on my course work. He’s done his best to scare me off from science. I know it will be hard, but I’d rather fight for what I want than settle for something easier.”

Illya smiled for the first time since he’d arrived and it transformed his face, softening the sharp edges. “That’s what I needed to hear you say.” 

They worked for the next few hours, compiling a list of colleges. Clair had only a few stipulations. She preferred staying on the East Coast. Being adrift in the world, it comforted Clair to be in the same part of the country as the people who cared about her. And after six years in a completely female environment, Clair’s preference was for a co-educational school. It was long past time to meet the other sex, as far as she was concerned. She may not have been as boy crazy as Mary Grace, but she’d had quite enough segregation. 

Clair remembered what Heather had said and kept an eye on Illya. When his energy seemed to flag, Clair suggested they take a break. His ready agreement was all the sign she needed that he had done too much that morning. 

It would have been better if Illya could have taken a true rest and reclined, but Clair was pretty sure he’d resist that. A quiet lunch was the next best thing, so Clair asked the convent cook, Sister Agnes, if they could have lunch at the big table in the kitchen, away from the students and away from the college books and papers. 

The kitchen was warm and wonderfully fragrant from the apple pies baking in the oven. Illya and Clair sat over sandwiches and bowls of chicken soup. Sister Agnes took one look at Illya’s thin body and pale skin and took it as a personal challenge to restore him to health. Illya didn’t eat much but looked as if he wanted to. Sister Agnes tried to fill his soup bowl a second time and went away disappointed when he declined. “My stomach is still a bit tender,” he told Clair by way of explanation.

After they finished lunch, Sister Agnes shooed them out to the little slate patio beyond the kitchen door to the old metal glider. Sister Agnes retreated here to say her rosary when she had a few moments in her busy day. Over the years, Clair had spent a lot of time in the kitchen with Sister during the semester breaks when the other girls went home. She was one of the few students to have the privilege of sitting on the glider.

As they rocked, Clair glanced over to see Illya’s eyes drift shut and his body relax. She kept the glider moving, enjoying the unseasonably warm afternoon. She wondered about this man who looked like a college student, but lived a life of violence and danger. How long would it be before Illya met the same fate as her father?

Thirty minutes later, he came awake silently. His eyes snapped open and he scanned his surroundings. There was no confusion or startling—just instant alertness. “We should get back to work,” he said, using his cane to lever himself to a standing position. 

They returned to the work room and began to sift through the list of schools they’d made that morning, narrowing the field to the five or six best choices. Clair filled out the applications through the afternoon. By the time the dinner bell rang, both of them were happy to call it a day. The applications were nearly complete. All that was left was the essay. 

Clair and Illya ate dinner with the sisters and the senior students. Normally the sisters took their meals in the cloister, but tonight was a special occasion. The girls chattered and giggled, sneaking glances at Illya. Even the sisters seemed more animated than usual. The room fell silent as Reverend Mother entered the room and moved to stand at the end of the center table where the sisters sat, along with Clair and Illya. 

“Your attention please, ladies,” she said. “Let us all extend a warm St. Boniface welcome to our esteemed guest, Mr. Kuryakin, who is visiting our own Clair Donovan.” 

After a spirited round of applause, Illya carefully rose to his feet and bowed from the waist. Only Clair would have noticed the slight grimace as his sore stomach muscles protested. Once he was seated, Reverend Mother clasped her hands and offered a prayer before the meal. Illya sat quietly, his hands in his lap as Clair and the others thanked God for the bounty of His gifts.

After dinner and Sister Agnes’ wonderful apple pie, Clair walked Illya across the school grounds to the string of small cottages at the edge of the property. The dwellings had been home to retired servants back when the school had been a private home. Now they were used to house visiting instructors, special visitors or Father Loraine, the order’s chaplain on his periodic visits. 

The sun had nearly set, the ground deeply shadowed as they walked across the field. Leaves crunched under Clair’s saddle shoes. 

“I can carry my own suitcase,” Illya said, trying to take the handle from Clair. 

“Stop that, or I’ll tell Heather,” she said, laughing. Illya sighed deeply but did not attempt to take the bag from her again. He stumbled a little walking over the uneven ground. “May I ask you something?”

He nodded, looking down at her. “What do you want to know?”

“When were you shot?” 

“Almost a month ago. Why on earth would you want to know that?” 

“Well, you seem like you’re still in a lot of pain,” she said. “I wonder if coming here was too much for you.”

“Why does everyone persist in treating me like an invalid. It grows tiresome,” he said sharply. Clair was too stunned to speak. She realized she’d picked up her pace when Illya called her name, breathing heavily as he tried to catch up. She slowed and Illya reached her side, his expression hidden in the shadows. He raked a hand through hair that was silver in the half light. “That was inexcusable. I should not take my frustration out on you.”

“You want to go back to work,” she said. 

“Of course,” he said, as if there could be no other answer. 

“Even though it almost killed you. And don’t tell me that I’m too young and naïve to understand. You came close to dying, didn’t you? And you want to go right back and do it again.”

“It’s my job. It’s…it’s what I’m meant to do.”

Clair sighed, thinking of her father. Jack Donovan had the same singleminded devotion to his work and it had killed him. What had Illya called it? A cross between religious vocation and addiction. What was it about these men that allowed them to fall under the spell of danger?

They reached the cottage and Clair dug into her pocket for the key. She unlocked the door and felt along the wall until she found the light switch. A cozy room was revealed in the golden lamplight, chintz on the sofa and chair, ruffled curtains on the windows. A bedroom could be glimpsed through the doorway, towels stacked on the end of the bed. 

“Reverend Mother had it aired out, but it’s still a little stuffy in here,” she said, opening one of the windows a few inches. 

“You should get back before it’s completely dark,” he said. “I’m surprised they let you escort a single man alone in the twilight. I suppose they figure I’m too feeble these days to present a threat to your virtue.” He smiled wryly, leaning heavily on his cane. It was obvious he was exhausted.

“The sisters think I’m completely reliable and far too sensible to get into any trouble. Even after ditching Sister Francis, I’m still the girl most likely to follow the rules.” 

“And you wish to be unreliable and likely to get into trouble?” he asked, smiling.

“I guess not. I just hate being so predictable,” she said. “I probably should get back, though. I’ll work on my essay tonight so you can look it over in the morning. Sleep well, Illya.”

“You too. See you in the morning.” 

~~mfu~~mfu~~mfu~~

March 1960

“Clair, what are you doing here?” Illya asked as he came through the doors of reception. He’d received a message that he had a visitor. Puzzled, he’d gone to the reception area to investigate, his instincts on high alert. He took a deep breath, releasing the adrenaline. 

The girl seemed to be bristling with excitement, a large canvas bag slung over her shoulder. Her long hair hung loose down the back of her wool pea coat. Her cheeks were pink, either from the cold or exhiliration.

“I have them,” she said, opening the bag to reveal several large envelopes inside. “All the responses from the schools.”

“Wonderful!” he said. “Let’s go to my office and you can show me.”

They walked through the gray halls. “You look a lot healthier,” she said, smiling up at him. “Back at work?”

“I feel much better now,” he replied. “I was cleared for regular duty right after the new year. I can’t tell who is happier about that, me or my coworkers.”

“And you…you’ve been careful?” she asked.

“I promise you, Clair, I always try to be safe.” He meant it, too, though he was pretty sure Napoleon would have snorted with laughter if he had heard. “So tell me, how goes your quest to be the girl most likely to break the rules?”

“Well, there has been some progress there,” she said with a laugh. “A couple of weeks ago, Mary Grace, Peggy and I went into town on the excuse that we needed to do research at the library. But instead, we went to see ‘A Summer Place’ at the movie theater.”

“A very racy film from what I hear.”

“I’ll say. Condemned by the Catholic Legion of Decency and everything.”

“And did you enjoy your act of rebellion?”

“It wasn’t as satisfying as I thought it would be. We got away with it, but the next day, it felt like Reverend Mother could see right through us.”

“Guilt is the enemy of rebellion.”

“Guilt is unavoidable in a Catholic school. But I don’t exactly feel guilty. I wish we could have been honest about where we were going. I just want to be able to decide what movie to see. And I wanted to see Troy Donahue in ‘A Summer Place’.”

“I agree about choosing for yourself. Just think, next year, you’ll be making your own decisions. So what subterfuge did you come up with to get here?” he asked. 

“This is a sanctioned trip. Our chaplain, Father Lorraine, was coming to New York for a conference and Reverend Mother asked him to drive me.”

Napoleon looked up as Clair and Illya entered the office. “Clair, I had no idea you were Illya’s special visitor. It’s wonderful to see you.”

“Clair brought the responses to her college applications,” Illya said. “Let’s take a look at them.” 

Bouncing on her heels, the girl looked like she was going to jump out of her skin. She upended the contents of her canvas bag on the bare surface of the desk. Illya looked through the envelopes. “Clair, these are still sealed. You didn’t open them?”

“The other girls had their decision letters go to their homes and they opened them with their families. The only address I have is the school.” Her eyes were trained on the desk as she spoke. “I didn’t want to open them by myself. I realize that’s silly.”

“It’s not silly at all,” Illya said, his voice tender with the knowledge of what it was to be young and alone in the world.

“Reverend Mother said the same thing. That’s when she asked Father Lorraine if he could drive me.”

“Well, let’s see what you have here.” Illya spread the six fat envelopes across the desk. He reached into the desk drawer, retrieving a letter opener and handed it and one of the envelopes to Clair. 

“Sister Francis said that it was a good sign that all of them were big, fat envelopes.” Her hands shook as she inserted the letter opener under the flap. 

“I guess the rejections don’t take up much room,” Napoleon from his desk. He stood up and grabbed his coffee mug. “I’ll be back in a little while.” 

Clair looked up from the envelope that she’d just slit open. She looked at him with the dawning realization that Napoleon wasn’t sure if his presence was welcome. “Oh, no—please stay, I mean, if you don’t mind.”

“I’m honored,” he said, coming around to stand on Clair’s other side. “Thank you.” The partners watched as Clair drew out the first letter. 

“This is from Johns Hopkins,” she said with a little gasp. “We are pleased to offer you admittance to our 1960 freshman class!” 

“Excellent school,” Illya said as he handed her the next envelope. She slit this one open with a flourish.

“Congratulations on your acceptance to University of Pennsylvania!” 

“Two for two,” Napoleon said. Clair sliced open the next envelope. Absorbed in Clair’s happiness, Illya barely noticed that Napoleon had slipped back to his own desk and quietly spoken into the telephone.

By the time the process was complete, acceptance letters from Cornell, Duke, Tufts and Columbia University were lined up on Illya’s desk along with those from Johns Hopkins and UPenn. 

“I heard we had a special guest,” Heather McNabb said from the doorway. “Hello, Clair. You’re looking very grown up these days.” Heather came into the room and gave the girl a hug. Illya took a good look at Clair and realized Heather was right. He’d felt so ill and been so out of sorts when he’d seen her in the fall that it had hardly registered, but Clair had grown several inches and looked far more like the pretty teenager she was than the child she’d been at their first meeting.

“Mr Solo, you had better have a good reason for summoning…” Alexander Waverly stopped in his tracks and smiled. “Why, Clair, what a pleasure.” 

Sarah Johnson followed him into the office, eyes twinkling as she watched the bluster leave her boss so suddenly. 

“I’m sorry to interrupt your work, sir, but this is a pretty momentous occasion,” Solo said, indicating the desk. “Clair has been accepted to every university to which she applied. All six of them.”

“Well, well, that is quite an accomplishment, Clair,” Mr. Waverly said as he scanned the letters on the desk. “Tufts, Columbia….all of these are fine schools, and very prestigious.”

“She’d have gotten into Harvard or Yale or MIT, too, if they weren’t ridiculously behind the times in disallowing women,” Illya said. 

“Absolutely,” Heather agreed. 

“Be that as it may,” Waverly said, ever the traditionalist. “Miss Johnson, please make a reservation for dinner for all of us at the 21 Club. This is a cause for celebration.” 

~~mfu~~mfu~~mfu~~

May 1960

“Ouch!”

“Sorry,” Peggy Novak said as she repositioned the offending bobby pin in Clair’s updo. “It looks really good if I do say so myself.”

Peggy was the best hairstylist in the senior class, having spent summers working in a beauty parlor in her home town. It was graduation day, and what seemed like the entire senior class was crammed into their dorm room, most of them Peggy’s “customers.” Some of the girls were already coiffed while others had the pink foam curlers still in their hair from the night before. All the girls wore bathrobes as it was too early to get into their white formals and risk wrinkling the dresses.

“You’re done,” Peggy announced, smoothing one last strand of hair and handing Clair a mirror. 

“It’s beautiful,” Clair said. “Thank you!” In fact, Clair could hardly believe her eyes. Her dark blonde hair was arranged in a kind of crown at the top of her head. 

“Okay, next victim!” Peggy called out as Clair vacated the chair. 

Clair took a bottle of Coca Cola from the ice chest next to Mary Grace’s bed, popped the top and carried it over to the window. Mary Grace had smuggled the soda up to the dorm room saying it was high time the senior class exercised their free will. She had wanted to bring in champagne but Clair and Peggy had talked her out of it. Coca Cola was just as forbidden in Reverend Mother’s eyes, but at least the State of Connecticut wouldn’t object. 

Clair took a long drink as she curled up on the window seat. Looking down, she could see some families arriving early, hoping to get good seats for the ceremony. Happy, smiling mothers and fathers, thrilled that their daughters had reached such a milestone. Clair had never felt more alone.

No one would be coming to see her receive her diploma. 

She’d let Mr. Waverly know the date of the graduation and he’d sent her an elegant pair of pearl earrings that must have cost a great deal. Mr. Solo had sent along a lovely pen set and Illya had given her a beautifully bound book of Madam Curie’s publications translated into English. She was grateful for their gifts and the knowledge that they hadn’t forgotten her, but she couldn’t help but be sad to have no family to witness this day. 

Clair knew Illya and the others were responsible for keeping everyone in the world safe. With such incredibly important work, they couldn’t worry about one girl’s high school graduation. She had felt so special that day in New York when they’d all been together. Walking into a fancy restaurant with Illya and Napoleon on either side made her feel cared for. 

Everyone had tried to guess which school she would choose, making the case for their favorite. Clair had confessed that Pennsylvania was the frontrunner as they agreed to take her credits from University of Connecticut. Napoleon gave a victory cheer as that had been his choice, while Illya had favored Johns Hopkins. But as wonderful as that had been, it was time, she guessed, to be a grown up and face the fact that she was alone.

“Let’s get some make up on you,” Mary Grace said as she plopped down on the window seat. Opening her makeup kit, she pulled out mascara, lipstick, powder and rouge. Reverend Mother had waived her ironclad rule against makeup on students for graduation day providing it was applied with a very light touch. The seniors were not to look like ‘dance hall girls’ as Reverend Mother put it. 

“Okay, but not too much,” Clair said, acutely aware that at sixteen she was much less sophisticated than her classmates. 

“Your skin is beautiful--this will only take a minute. It took me half an hour to cover up Gretchen’s spots,” Mary Grace said. “Open your eyes wide and look up.” Mary Grace applied mascara, following up with a light dusting of face powder and blush. Holding up two lipsticks, she asked, “Which shade?” 

“The lighter one,” Clair said, pointing to a soft pink color. 

“Hey, guess what?” Mary Grace said, lowering her voice as she slid on the lipstick. “I applied to stewardess school last winter.”

“Holy smoke. Did you get in?” Clair said, softly.

“Yeah. The only problem is I need to get one of my parents to sign because I’m not 19 yet. I think I can get my mother to go along, but my dad is going to blow his stack. He says stewardesses are flying geisha girls.”

“But it’s so exciting! Traveling all over the world. Wearing a snappy uniform.” 

“That’s the plan, providing my dad doesn’t lock me in my room until I’m 30,” she said. “Hey, maybe I can climb out a window and stay with you in Philadelphia! You could hide me in your dorm room.”

Over the next hour, their room emptied out as the last of the seniors left to get into their dresses. Finally, it was just the three roommates. “All right, girls,” Mary Grace said. “It’s show time.”

As Clair stepped into her dress, she remembered the day she had gone shopping in Hartford with Mary Grace and her mother. It had been interesting to say the least, watching Mary Grace sneak sexier gowns into the dressing room, each one shot down by Mrs. Denton. Finally, they agreed on a dress that was more sedate than Mary Grace wanted but sexier than her mother would have liked.

Clair had let Mrs. Denton and the sales woman help her find the cap sleeved, scoop necked dress that Peggy now zipped her into. “I thought it was kind of plain when it was on the hanger, but it looks really nice on you,” she said.

As they started down the main staircase, Mary Grace slipped an arm around Clair’s waist. “My dad made reservations at The River House for all of us.”

The seniors gathered on the staircase for a class photo. As they lined up to process out onto the lawn where the visitors were seated, the nuns handed each girl a beribboned red rose. Clair stood in the doorway, blinking in the bright sunlight as she waited for Sister Francis’s go ahead. 

She walked down the wide middle aisle between the folding chairs filled with families, her eyes trained ahead. The seniors sat in the first two rows and as Clair turned to find her chair, she looked up. Her gaze rested on a familiar blond head and with a little gasp, she picked out the whole group in the row with him. Napoleon smiled as he caught her eye, elbowing Illya who was bent over the program booklet. Her eyes blurred as she turned and faced Reverend Mother who began the graduation exercises. 

The graduation was a swirl of prayers and speeches. Soon it was over and the Class of 1960 was mobbed by family and friends on the lawn. Clair turned to see her Illya threading his way through the crowd, the rest of the group behind him. 

They delivered a chorus of “Congratulations!” Heather hugged her and Napoleon gave her a kiss on the cheek. Illya graced her with one of his rare, beautiful smiles.

“I can’t believe you all came,” she said, her voice choked with happy tears. “I didn’t know.”

“Clair, my dear,” Mr. Waverly said. “I’m sorry you thought we weren’t coming. I didn’t mean to cause you worry. I couldn’t be sure we would make it and didn’t want you to be disappointed.“

“These two landed at Idlewild an hour ago,” Sarah Johnson said, indicating Illya and Napoleon. “I think they broke the speed limits of two states racing here.”

Mary Grace made her way across the grass. “Hey Clair, my dad is pulling the car around.” The girl suddenly realized Clair was not alone in the crowd. 

“Thanks, Mary Grace. It was so nice of you to include me. But, it looks like my family made it after all.”

 

The End

**Author's Note:**

> I remember the first time I saw "A Summer Place" on TV, and my mother's reaction to the way relationships were handled. The movie was on the naughty list by the Legion of Decency, so I'm pretty surprised she let me watch it. I also remember how adorably cute Troy Donahue was. I guess I had it bad for blond men.


End file.
